


A Soft Place To Land

by moon river (drifter_dreamer)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 00:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18728116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drifter_dreamer/pseuds/moon%20river
Summary: “It’s just- no one ever started out thinking they would stop being friends, you know?”Pierre pursed his lips. “Senna and Prost. Lewis and Rosberg.” He paused. “Esteban and me, I guess.”“We always think we can handle it until we can’t,” Charles surmised morosely. “I don’t want that to happen to us.”





	A Soft Place To Land

Pierre arrived on Tuesday, travel-tousled hair glowing amber in the backlight of the setting sun and streetlights. The streets of Monaco never quite quieten, but as shadows crept over the honeyed land and sucked the warmth from the air, only a trickle of pedestrians remained to accompany his brief commute to his friend’s apartment. He had tapped out an “I’m here!” on his phone as he scaled the stairs, the aged building having preceded elevators, and an open door was waiting for him when he reached. 

 

Charles himself was leaning against the parapet in the corridor, gazing out towards the streets of his hometown. A picture of ease and homeliness. He appeared far more comfortable than he had any right to be on a chilly December evening, with only an oversized hoodie to speak for his protection against the elements. It was not even machismo on his part; Charles was much too good for that. No, he was simply unfathomably, infuriatingly tolerant towards the cold. It had become something of a jibe between them years ago. 

 

At the sound of Pierre’s sauntering footsteps, he turned. His countenance softened into a fond smile as Pierre closed the distance between them in quick strides. Charles’ embrace, open and unhesitating, always felt like coming home. Pierre knew he was lucky; Charles gave affection freely and easily, but so rarely accepted it in return, even from his close friends. So if they took a moment longer than usual to breathe and simply be, well, no one would tell. 

 

Charles tugged Pierre into the apartment with a quip about his “frail French constitution”. Pierre unceremoniously launched his duffle bag at him. It was plucked out of the air with ease, but Charles conveniently went to ground in dramatic fashion, keeling over and rolling to starfish on the fine marble floor.

 

“I have been slain,” he moaned. Pierre kicked at his ankle dispassionately. 

 

“Monegasques. So weak,” he chirped, lithely stepping over his friend’s body and scooping up his duffle in a single motion. 

 

Charles gave no sign of having heard him. “Slain in my own home,” he continued, as Pierre disappeared to deposit his belongings in the guest room. “By a trusted friend.”

 

Pierre reappeared, bagless this time, and headed towards the kitchen. “Oh dear,” he deadpanned. “How will you ever survive this betrayal.” Then, in a more amiable tone: “Hey, coffee! Thanks, man.”

 

Charles swallowed a giggle and shut his eyes. “It’s too late, Pierre. Only a kiss of true love may save me now.”

 

On cue, Pierre’s voice sounded above him. “If you insist,” it huffed, and then Pierre’s lips caressed Charles’ forehead, feather-light. Charles blinked his eyes open. Pierre was smirking at him, but his eyes were soft and fond as he hauled Charles upright. 

 

“You know you’ll regret that tonight,” Charles nodded at the mug in Pierre’s hands. His friend beamed impudently. 

 

“And yet, you made it for me.” He sipped at his beverage as he folded himself onto the sofa with the ungainly grace of a flamingo. There was something about Pierre looking so at home, drinking from his favourite mug and fluffing his favourite pillow, that made Charles feel like he had swallowed a sky full of stars. 

 

“That’s ‘cos I know you’re a nightmare after travelling.”

 

He laid his head down on Pierre’s lap. Or the pillow on Pierre’s lap, but, you know. Semantics.

 

“So you’re my worst enabler. Worst comes to worst, we’ll play tennis at one a.m. again,” Pierre replied breezily. 

 

Charles could rattle off a list of reasons why that was a terrible idea. Instead, he sighed in acquiesce, and was rewarded by Pierre’s beatific smile. 

 

They did not know how long they sat there in silent companionship. Long enough that Pierre’s mug was drained, the dregs of coffee evaporated into dark brown rings at the bottom and around the rim. Long enough that the last golden rays of sun had given way to the luminous softness of the gibbous moon. Long enough that Charles had been lulled into a light slumber by Pierre absently combing his fingers through his hair. 

 

In sleep, his friend’s face was unguarded and peaceful. His memory stirred: a childhood sleepover, when little Charles had conked out mere hours after pinkie-promising to stay up till midnight. Pierre had been most displeased. 

 

“He promised,  _ maman _ . Make him wake up,” was his plaintive whine. His mother, infinitely patient and wise, had taken him by the hands. 

 

“Your friend is still young. He needs sleep to grow strong and keep up with your antics. You mustn’t disturb him.”

 

“But… I don’t want to wait for Santa alone.”

 

His mother smiled. “You can still wait with Charles. You know, you’re sort of an older brother to him. I’m sure he would like to have a brother watching over him.” 

 

Older brother. It had been the first time he had heard such a suggestion. He quite liked it. Little Pierre had informed his mother that he would like an extra blanket for Charles, please, and maybe a pillow too? 

 

Pierre did not think he had to worry about Charles keeping up nowadays. If anything, the reverse was probably true. But there lay only despair and crippling self-doubt in that line of inquiry, and Pierre ruthlessly quashed any attempt by his brain to pursue it. 

 

Just when the numbness in his legs had blossomed from mild discomfort to borderline painful, Charles stirred. 

 

“You drooled on my pillow,” Pierre informed him. Charles flipped him off on pure habit, then blinked in realisation as the sleep cleared from his eyes.

 

“Ah, damn. I can’t believe I fell asleep. Fuck, I’d wanted-” he cut himself off as he heaved himself upright. “Guess I won’t be going to bed anytime soon.”

 

Pierre jumped to his feet. “Like I said. Tennis at one a.m. You on?” His hand, extended in mock invitation, was promptly batted away. No tennis, Charles vetoed with an eye roll. He had something better in mind. 

 

Leaving the comforts of the apartment behind, Charles led Pierre through the shadow-darkened streets with a confidence known only to the locals. Pierre liked to think that he knew Monte Carlo better than the faceless tourists and famed Hollywood types that swarmed it in the day, even without having lived here permanently. He was familiar enough with its glitz and glamour, of course. But he had also walked its secret paths, unmarked roads that existed only for those who knew to look. Some, Charles had revealed to him. Others, they had discovered together, in the time it took for two boys with hope in their eyes and fire in their hearts to grow up and set the world alight. This was one of those, it seemed. He recognised the changing landscape, even when the asphalt beneath their feet gave way to silt and soil. 

 

Their destination was a rocky outcrop which dipped into a valley that kissed the sea before stretching towards the heavens. At low tide, it was possible to scramble down the stone steps inlaid into the rock and walk the paths that hugged the coast. At high tide, seawater swallowed the land and lapped at the bottommost steps with extreme vigour. Even sitting safely clear of the waves, Charles and Pierre would be unseen by the odd passerby on the main road. 

 

Charles was watching the sky. There were little stars to speak of- the light pollution in Monaco paid heed to that- but there was a little slip of a moon, gleaming porcelain in the yawning onyx maw of night. 

 

Pierre watched Charles. In the dark, he resembled a shadow framed by strokes of moonlight. He was tucked into himself, arms hugging his legs and head resting on his knees. What appeared to be calmness to the untrained eye, Pierre recognised as pensiveness. With Charles, it usually portended a tendency to worry himself into endless circles. Pierre knocked his knee lightly against his friend’s shin. 

 

“Something on your mind?”

 

Charles smiled wanly. “That obvious, huh?”

 

“With you? Yeah, most of the time.”

 

There was a lapse in conversation filled by the crashing waves as Charles attempted to sort his thoughts out. Pierre waited knowingly, giving him space. 

 

“Next season. We’ll be fighting in the top teams.” His voice was tight as he fought the choking sensation in his throat. “It’ll be pretty different.”

 

Pierre frowned. Charles’ mind was often convoluted and frenzied even to himself. But he had considerable experience teasing meaning from his friend’s opaque statements. 

 

“It’s a big step,” he agreed. “I don’t thin- I  _ know _ you’re not worried not about your ability to deliver-” Charles snorted, derisive at the very notion. Pierre promptly swatted his shoulder. 

 

“Shut up, you big-headed ass.”

 

“You think the same about yourself, and you know it.”

 

“Yes, but unlike you, I don’t feel the need to say so at every opportunity.”

 

Charles sniffed delicately. “There’s nothing wrong with being confident.” Then he jabbed his fingers into Pierre’s ribs. 

 

Swift retaliation followed his shriek of outrage. At some point, the tickling escalated into a water fight, seawater flung at each other without mercy. A truce was only declared when both boys sprawled spent and sopping wet, laughter ringing. The coastal draughts scattered Charles’ breathless giggles and Pierre’s roguish cackles seawards; they were for no ones’ ears but their own.

 

“I hate you,” Pierre grumbled. He, at least, was in better shape than Charles, his waterproof coat having protected him from the worst of the assault. Charles glanced up from his wringing of his soaked hoodie. 

 

“-no, you don’t.” 

 

Anyone else might not have noticed the slight hesitation, the tremor in his voice, the minor hitch in what was otherwise a habitual rejoinder in a well-established routine. Pierre himself barely caught it, and he stilled as the pieces fell into place. 

 

“Oh. Is this what you’re worried about?” The thought made him feel like his heart had been squeezed dry.

 

Charles deflated. Any semblance of short-lived levity bled away, leaving him hunched and forlorn. Like this, he more closely resembled a bone-weary  _ grand- _ _ père _ than a sprightly young man.

 

Very deliberately, Pierre scooted closer and laid a hand on his shoulder. Charles did not pull away- as good a sign as any. His friend had a bad habit of denying himself comfort when he thought he deserved it. 

 

“Do you remember the interview we did with Canal?” Charles whispered it like it was sacrilege. Pierre nodded. They had spoken to the French television channel several times, but he could only have been referring to one instance.

 

“They asked us if competing against each other would affect our friendship.” It was not a question. 

 

Charles jerked his head: a confession and an apology in one. He knew it was a trivial thing to brood over. At the end of the day, friendship was a non-question in motorsports. Sure, it was nice to have. Most drivers were, if not friends, at least friendly towards one another. But no one clawed their way to the top for sentiment. Charles had no illusions about themselves being any different. 

 

Unnecessary baggage was only deadwood, best thrown out and left in one’s wake. And maybe the aftermath would not be pretty, but one need not look back if they are at the front. Go fast enough, and you can leave everything behind.

 

_ Will barriers be put between you two?  _ Of course not, Charles had answered, forthright and genial. I will not accept any barriers that are forced on me. He had not added that such interference was the least of his worries. Drivers were self-destructive enough by themselves. 

 

“Oh,  _ mon frère _ ,” Pierre rasped. His throat felt raw, like someone had shattered his heart and shoved the jagged pieces down his trachea. Under his palm, Charles was rigid, trembling. 

 

“I know it’s stupid, okay?” Charles hands twisted and clamped together. “We’re driving in teams people would kill to be in and I’m acting like- like a child.” He yanked on his hoodie, fingernails scraping against the fabric like he wanted to tear it, gouge the flesh beneath. I’m greedy and-” 

 

Pierre caught his arm. His grip was vice-like, bruising in its strength. Good, Charles thought. He did not deserve gentleness.

 

“Charles,” Pierre begged. He sounded as broken as Charles felt. “Don’t you dare call yourself weak for being human.”

 

A beat of silence. Charles tethered on the edge of the proverbial cliff. Then he slumped into Pierre’s arms, breathing heavily and clutching for dear life. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked.

 

“You should be,” Pierre murmured, but his hands continued to rub circles into Charles’ back. “Don’t you dare scare me like that again.”

 

When his breathing had once again approached something resembling normalcy, Charles drew back, almost embarrassed. Pierre kept a hand on his arm, the other, over his shoulder, absentmindedly smoothing down the hoodie with his thumb.

 

“I still don’t understand something,” he admitted. “And I’m not blaming you or anything. It’s just. We separate the stuff that happens on track from everything else. We know how to do it. So why did you think that would change.” His gaze darted away from Charles and back. “Did… did I do something?”

 

Charles’ eyes widened. “Oh. Oh God, no, Pierre, fuck. I make you think that? I’m so, so sorry-” he quelled as Pierre’s thumb rubbed deeper circles into his arm. “Sorry. Panicking. We gotta work on that sometime.” Pierre patted his shoulder encouragingly, and he soldiered on. 

 

“Anyway. No, it wasn’t you. Or anything, really. It’s just- no one ever started out thinking they would stop being friends, you know?”

 

Pierre pursed his lips. “Senna and Prost. Lewis and Rosberg.” He paused. “Esteban and me, I guess.”

 

“We always think we can handle it until we can’t,” Charles surmised morosely. “I don’t want that to happen to us.”

 

Pierre considered this. He thought about himself and Esteban, about how a childhood bond had become so rotten and tainted that it was better off left to die. He thought about two kids, one too afraid and bitter to make sense of himself. The other too clumsy to understand, much less to help or heal. Both too prideful and aggrieved to make amends now. He thought about the wisp of self-doubt that had raised its ugly head earlier that evening, and how such inner ugliness could so easily be reflected outwards. 

 

“I can’t promise that it won’t happen,” he began slowly. “But for every Hamilton and Rosberg, there’s a Hunt and Lauda. It’s not set in stone, you know.” A challenging tone entered his voice. Charles knew this tone. It was the one that drove him to break PlayStation controllers in video game competitions he could not win. It was also the one that pushed him to multiple karting podiums, taking turns on the top step with the man beside him. 

 

“So- what, you’re just gonna give up?” Pierre snorted. “If I know anything about you, it’s that you never stop fighting. Not if you thought it was worth it.” 

 

“Of course I think it’s worth it,” Charles protested, twisting to glare at Pierre. Pierre rolled his eyes.  _ Duh. I never doubted that. _

 

“Listen,  _ Charlito _ . We’ll do our best, and it’ll be enough. If I start being a bitter ass, you’ll punt me off a cliff, and I’ll do the same for you. No use worrying about it now.” 

 

Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded dismissive, condescending even. But beneath Pierre’s flippant words was the unshakeable confidence that they would prevail, and his iron-clad belief cocooned and buoyed Charles like a warm embrace.

 

He was still not fully convinced. Pierre was a wild ocean, irreverent and indomitable, the madness to Charles’ method. Charles thought himself more a wildfire- a singleminded blaze of glory willing to consume everything in his path. Control was paramount.

 

He knew that friendships rarely implode. They fade away, eroded by neglect. One day you wake up and realise they have been absent for months. They twist and mutate until they are no longer recognisable.  _ Neither of us is the person we thought we were.  _ They are abandoned, when it becomes easier to walk away from frigid silences than endure them. When friendship becomes a chore, a distraction, an obligation.  _ What would you give to be World Champion? _

 

True, most drivers are friendly with one another. Charles imagined greeting Pierre with a cordial smile, exchanging vapid pleasantries and draping the hollow structure of their friendship with delicate gossamer threads of empty small talk. The notion made him vaguely nauseous. He did not think he could bear it. 

 

Charles did not know how to tell Pierre all this. He could only grip him fiercely and whisper supplications into the crook of his neck. _Don’t let me go._ _Please._

 

Pierre smoothed a hand soothingly down his back and cupped his waist. “Never,” he promised, and they both knew they were not talking about this very moment. Pierre had a way of understanding Charles, even without words.

 

Abruptly, Pierre pulled away, grasping Charles by both shoulders. “You’re shivering,” he observed in a most disapproving tone. Charles blinked. So he was. It seemed that a damp hoodie was inadequate protection against the midnight coastal winds, even for him. Who would have thought? 

 

Pierre levelled him a flat look when he mentioned as much, already tugging off his oversized winter coat. “Your mom would kill me if I got you sick. Come on, let’s go home.”

 

“My mom adores you,” Charles countered, even as he obediently donned the coat and trailed Pierre up the steps.

 

“I’m sure Ferrari will be next in line if she’s not willing.”

 

“They’re not. I won’t allow them to. I can’t beat you if you’re dead.”

 

“How touching.”

 

“Of course. I’m a gentleman.”

 

“ _ Of course _ .”

 

Their good-natured bickering continued all the way back to Charles’ apartment. Charles bullied Pierre into taking a shower. (The Frenchman was more inclined to simply strip off his damp clothing and crawl into bed, nevermind his salt-encrusted skin, but Charles has standards for housekeeping and hygiene, dammit.) By the time Charles himself stepped into the shower, it was nearing the witching hour. Their personal trainers would be disappointed in them if they knew.

 

His mug from earlier was still on the coffee table. Scrubbing out the hours-old stain was a bit of a bother, but Pierre regularly wrestled with cups left untouched for nigh on weeks in between his forgetfulness and unforgiving travel schedule. This was little trouble. There was a quiet comfort to be had in the familiarity of the motions.  _ Almost domestic _ , Pierre thought with a wry chuckle as he replaced the mug- bottom shelf, second cupboard from the left. He didn’t mind. There were worse things.

 

Charles emerged from the bathroom, eyes crinkled into a smile. The home falls silent soon after. An air of peace settles over the apartment, a tightly woven cocoon that shelters its dwellers through the night, providing solace in sleep. It pulses with a single missive, certain as fact: they will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I reference an interview that Pierre and Charles did with Canal+ called "On a grandi ensemble". It's conducted in French, but @f1stan on tumblr has a translation of it if anyone wishes to check it out.
> 
> 2) In the same interview, Pierre mentioned that Charles used to break the controllers when they competed against each other on Playstation.
> 
> 3) Pierre and Charles raced together on the same karting team in 2010. source: https://www.sodikart.com/en-gb/news/informations/congratulations-pierre-and-charles-17.html
> 
> 4) In 2017, they went training together at 1.30am and posted this snap: https://charlesleclerc.tumblr.com/post/159343866031/damsindistress-the-cutest-dorks
> 
> 5) I wanted to write them as friends and brothers above all else; i.e. this is meant to be a genfic. I suppose it can be read as pre-romance, but that was not my intention.
> 
> 6) I don't speak French, so if I've messed up any phrases, please let me know.


End file.
